I open the door quietly and head down the hallway.
The living room fireplace throws the only light. I slip toward the kitchen, trying to stay quiet.
But he’s there.
In the chair he told me never to touch, watching the flames. He’s changed: sleep pants, old t-shirt tight across his shoulders. The light plays over his face, and the scar doesn’t look so brutal anymore. Just part of him.
He looks up when he hears me.
I freeze in the hallway entrance, suddenly very aware of how little I’m wearing. The nightgown is modest enough, but the way his eyes travel down my body makes me feel naked.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, his voice rough.
“No.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I was just getting water.”
He nods toward the other room, but he doesn’t look away from me.
I should go. Get my water and retreat to my room like a sensible person.
But my feet carry me toward him instead.
I don’t sit in his chair. I’m not that bold. But I lower myself onto the floor near the fireplace, close enough to feel the heat of the flames, close enough to feel the heat of him.
“What about you?” I ask. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
“No.”
“What are you thinking about?”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“You,” he says finally.
The word settles into me, heavy and warm. I should deflect. Make a joke. Break the tension building with every breath.
“That’s dangerous,” I say instead.
“I know.”
“I’m not... I’m not looking for anything, Tolin. I told you that.”
“I know.”
“So why do I keep ending up here?” I gesture vaguely at us, at this. “Why can’t I stay away from you?”
He leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, bringing his face closer to mine. His eyes have that shimmer again, the one that tells me his bear is close to the surface.
“You feel it too,” he says. “The pull.”
“Yes.” There’s no point in denying it anymore. “What is it?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with those dark eyes, his whole body tense, his hands gripping his knees like he’s holdinghimself back.
“Tolin. What is it?”
“I can’t explain it.” His voice is strained. “Not yet. I just need you to feel it. Can you do that? Can you just... feel it with me?”
I should say no. Should demand answers. Should protect myself the way I’ve learned to do after years of being hurt.
